


Little Boy Lost and Crying.

by Urloth (CollyWobbleKiwi)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Gil-Galad's Parentage, I got called a monster on tumblr for writing this :D, Mistaken identities, Mystery for the Ages, Tumblr inspires the most awfully wonderful things, Who is Gil-Galad's Father?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollyWobbleKiwi/pseuds/Urloth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quoted from Tumblr which inspired this:</p><p>ha-leths: i feel like the house of finwe just found a confused, crying, and lost little boy in the woods one day and decided to keep him and call him gil-galad</p><p>and thats why his parentage is so confusing because everyone claimed he was theirs </p><p>peredhel: that kind of makes it sound like he was Elured or Elurin haha</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Boy Lost

Maedhros lied. Maedhros did find them. Both of them, for all the good it did Eluréd with his fragile neck broken where he’d fallen down a ravine trying to run from the Noldor who had been seeking him; trying to draw them away from where he had hidden tiny Elurín. 

They buried the child next to his parents, and then Maedhros was left to ponder the still crying creature he now had in his care. There were mental wounds too deep for their own healers to care for, he knew this personally, and he doubted any child could survive the life that loomed before them both.

"We will send him to Balar," he decided at last, the child on his hip since placing Elurín down usually resulted in screaming and crying fits, and sometimes actual convulsions from the terror that chased after the child. He was so young, Maedhros thought without any regret for this young meant the memories would fade easily, even become totally erased in time. Yes the child was young; so young he was practically a babe.

There was a flicker of yearning in him, just for a moment. He rembered holding Tyelperinquar many times, cradling that small body and pondering his own future sons whom had never eventuated. He turned his mind away from such useless and ancient sensory recollection, and turned his mind towards the pressing issue.

It felt like acid though, returning to the thindar one of the family that had stolen and continued to deny them their birthright.

Ah but…

It galled Cirdan to receive a messenger from the Noldor at such a time as this. But the child clinging to the messenger’s chest, in a deep, Power induced sleep stilled his tongue and made him curious for the babe was wrapped in clothing speaking of wealth, and had a regal cast to his or her young features already. And then there was a glimmer of hope when he saw a idle strand of silver hair sticking out beneath the magenta swaddlings.

"I have been charged with delivering this child to you," the messenger bowed deeply, "he is Gil-Galad in your language, or Erenion, the Scion of Kings. He is the only one left."

The hope died.

"Technically we told him who the child was," Maedhros said when the messenger returned successful.

"Save the name," Maglor reminded him.

"I merely thought it a terrible burden for a child to grow up named literally as the reminder of a once mighty king who ultimately became nothing more then a thief and a failure," Maedhros said, and turned away.


	2. Little Boy Confused

He remembered his father’s laughter.

And after that there was the woods, and darkness, and cold. And his brother (his brother?) left him behind, telling him to hide in a tree and he that would be back soon. But his brother (his brother?) never came back.

Cirdan asked him, once or twice  who his parents had been, before giving up. Because really Gil-Galad’s memories were too fragmented to be coherent, and what was left was so tinged with horror it could make him shudder and scream to try and remember what had happened after his father’s laughter for very long. Sometimes he had given himsel nosebleeds, trying to press against the large dark forest of his memory, where nothing made sense and everything was wrong.

“Perhaps Orodreth,” Cirdan suggested. That made sense, Gil-Galad thought, touching his silver hair, and watching his reflection copy him. Orodreth’s grandmother had been Teleri hadn’t she? And Orodreth had a daughter, it was said. Gil-Galad remembered having a sister, but not what had happened to her. He wondered perhaps if he had mixed things up, in his fright, and it was not his brother (his brother?) that had left him behind in the tree but his sister (his sister?).

That might make more sense.

It made a lot more sense actually then what he remembered.

His tutor Erestor said he had something of his face that resembled King Fingon.

The timing was off though, he was far too young to be Fingon’s child, and anyway the Noldor King had never married, nor had any known bastards.

Orodreth seemed the most likely candidate, but no one could ask him now.

Gil-Galad had his own theory; or perhaps his own desperately held secret. Or perhaps it was merely a yearning wish.

He could remember a warm arm around him, and curling his hands into hair that was the colour of a cheerful copper pot. He could remember his relief when his surprise had faded away, and reaching eagerly for the tall shining warrior that had reached for him, whispering it was alright and he would protect him, that there was nothing to fear, not any more. He thought of the way that warrior chased the terror away, and held him close though he must have been a burden and an inconvenience.

“ _Queen Míriel the Broideress was a Noldor of small stature and unusually, for her pedigree was of only Tatyarin descent, silver hair,”_ the old pages of a creakily old history text that he read to please Erestor had seemed to whisper conspiratorially to him at the time.

“Maedhros Fëanorion is my father,” Gil-Galad said to his mirror, testing the phrase on his tongue and still touching his silver hair. He turned the strands in his fingers, watching the light catch the pale colour.

To say the phrase warmed him from the inside out, and a lingering memory of winter within a unending forest faded a little more to speak the words loud.

“I am Gil-Galad Maedhrosion,” he looked himself in the eye through the mirror, “I am the scion of Kings. I am the son of Maedhros once King of the Ňoldor, son of King Curufinwë Fëanor, son of King Finwë and Míriel the Broideress whose silver hair I bear.”

He tilted his chin at his reflection, then grinned at how haughty that had made him look.

He was still young yet, he had much more growing to do, that was what Cirdan said. Perhaps he might grow as tall as Maedhros was said to be.

“Maedhros Fëanorion is my father,” he said a final time.

It was more plausible than Fingon, and as plausible as Orodreth, or at least it was to him.

And it pleased him.

And it made him hope.


	3. Little Boy Sleeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old text post got revived and I got inspired

The child is so young as to have still been in wrappings if he’d been born in Tirion, wrapped and secured to his mother or father’s back so that all day long he could feel the warmth of their skin and know he was with the ones who loved him. Old enough to walk and run and dance. To sing and talk and laugh. But still needing of that extra care. Still requiring frequent naps where the beating of a parental heart would calm their own.

Maedhros touched the shoulder of a filthy, quilted tunic, once turquoise, that looked too big for the babe. It had little ribbons to tie it at the shoulder and an embroidery of larks amongst plum blossoms on its quilted sleeves. There was a better fitting quilted smock underneath. Little briar leaves curled amongst rose buds over a soft pink cloth. Eluréd had been awfully underdressed for a child out in the woods in the middle of winter. He had assumed further miserable cruelty from Celegorm’s bereaved men.

His hand slipped up. Cupped a tiny cheek still with that awful softness babies had. How Nimloth must have strived and exhausted herself, producing three children in such a small space of time. That third child had still been strapped to a swaddling board when he’d seen the nursemaid escaping with her.

Celegorm would never have condoned the hurting of a child. The merry slaughter of their parents yes, but battle-mad, his followers had so dishonoured Celegorm’s memory that Maedhros thought his brother might appear at the curtain that divided this hastily assembled nursery from the carnage outside.

Ichor would drip from the gaping hole where Dior had pulled Celegorm’s heart out in one last desperate flare of power. But in Celegorm’s hand would be the curved dagger he had used to gut Dior like a pig.

 _Lead me to them_ he heard his brother whisper _I’ll execute them myself._

“They are dead brother,” he told the hungry howling of the wind beyond the caverns, screaming as it discovered the new entrances that smashed opened windows and shattered balconies had created for it.

“I strung them from the trees.”

He had made sure it was slow.

He cupped the back of the head, supported the neck, you always had to support the neck, and scooped around the child’s body to hold him close as he settled him against his handless arm, head against the crook of his elbow. The turquoise tunic wound up over Elurín’s ankles and he frowned. Their intel had said that Dior’s first borns were twins and yet Elurín was what he expected of a Thindar child of ten but Eluréd had been the size of a child twice that age. Faster. Nimbler. Stronger as well.

Had not Dior grown to manhood in half the time a Thindar child would?

Maedhros’ skin prickled with unease.

It had not saved him though. It had not saved him.

Perhaps it had been what had doomed him.

He cupped that soft cheek again and felt the rough line of dried salt upon it. Young enough to need closeness but old enough to shed real tears.

What would he do if the child woke up and began to cry again? He was no good with children. Even his own brothers. He had loved them from a distance until they had been old enough he had not felt he’d break them, and made Celegorm and Maglor take care of the rest.

His fingers slid around. Slid between the soft cap of silver hair and his elbow to palm the back of Elurín’s head. It would be so simple a thing to squeeze. So easy a thing to end this little life. To snap the neck. It might even be a mercy.

The child’s face crumpled and Maedhros panicked, hearing the winding up of a breath that heralded a shattered cry. He tried to rock and pat that small back at the same time, trying to remember what it was that his parents had found useful, what Maglor might have sung, what Celegorm had used to calm early thoughts chased away by how badly he did not want to hear those long howls of terror.  

“ _Thou art a gemstone,”_ his voice was cracked and hideous, rasping and not at all a soothing croon, “ _made from love. Resplendent. Thou art a blossom sprung from the grace of Eru. Adored.”_

And then Elurín… relaxed. Opened his eyes and looked straight up at Maedhros.

Smiled.


End file.
